One For Each Night
by that dark-haired girl
Summary: Or, the Eight Fics of Hanukkah. Multiple pairings, mostly post-war/next-gen. *COMPLETE*
1. O Come All Ye Faithful

Hello, all! This is just my own take on **TheOriginalHufflepuff**'s 'The Twelve Fics of Christmas' challenge, started a bit early (Hanukkah starts December 21st!) because all the Christmas music they've been playing at my work has kind of pushed me into the holiday spirit. ;-)

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* * *

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_O Come All Ye Faithful_

* * *

Their divorce is not her fault.

Verity knows this, but it doesn't mean she still doesn't feel a little bit guilty every time she shows up at his place and sees the lingering hints of Angelina. It's in things as obvious as the stray photo here and there that George still hasn't gotten around to putting away yet, and as subtle as the too-light color of the sofa that George never would have picked.

She feels even guiltier when he fucks her in the bed that he used to share with his wife, because even though the divorce isn't her fault, she's the one receiving all the benefits.

* * *

Roxanne's started calling her "_Mummy_" when she comes to watch them after work, but only when Fred is out of earshot. She thinks that she should tell George about it, or tell her "_No, I'm not your Mum_," but it makes her feel like she _belongs_. Like she's a part of this little family, and not just a stranger who happens to fall into their lives and go home at the end of every day.

She tries to tell him one afternoon when they put the twins down for a nap, but George just shuts the door behind them and leans against it, a grin on his face and his arms reaching out for her. He presses her up against the wall, hands roaming under her shirt and her own tangled up in his hair, his head resting in the soft crook of her neck as she fumbles with the zipper on his jeans. She bites his shoulder as she comes and he laughs quietly, both of them trying to muffle the sounds so that they don't wake up the kids in the next room and scar them for life.

She loves his laugh, but it's the next sound he makes – the breathy, private moan he makes against her neck – _this_ is the sound she that loves the most.

* * *

George wants to shut down the Wheeze and take Fred and Roxie out to his parent's place in Devon for Christmas. He asks her what she's doing in bed one morning and she lies, telling him that she plans on spending the holidays with her family out in Oxford. He doesn't press the issue, just gets dressed and kisses her soundly before rushing out the door.

She's not going to Oxford. Verity checks into a hotel in Muggle London, partly because she's always loved the city during the holidays, but mostly because right now, she needs to be surrounded by crowds of people who don't care who she is.

The streets of London are freezing cold as she walks around in her too-thin coat, and she stops at a Muggle shop to pick up a coat that'll get her through the next few days. There are fewer people doing their last-minute shopping than she expected, and it's a quick thing to grab a warmer coat and a pair of gloves. On the way to the register she sees a jumper that George would look handsome in, but she doesn't pick it up.

Verity isn't sure how to define what the hell it is that they're doing, because it isn't as casual as they pretend and it isn't official, either. She's already sent her friends and family and coworkers at the Wheeze their Christmas gifts; she doesn't think buying George something extra will clarify their relationship.

When she gets back to her hotel room she curls up in bed and watches the snow fall outside her window, trying not to think about how good George looks in blue.

* * *

Verity finds a church and goes to Midnight Mass, because it's warm and well-lit and mostly because she promised her mother that she would. The choir sounds beautiful, and when she passes the collection box beneath the church's bulletin board, she stops and drops a fifty-pound note inside.

'Tis the season, and all that jazz.

She walks back to her hotel, her shoulders hunched against the wind and her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat for warmth, when she feels her phone vibrate. She pulls it out, expecting a missed call from her mother, or maybe a text message from her brother giving her shit about not showing up for the family party this year.

_Have you paid4 your Cath_

_olic dues for the 9year?_

It's signed _G_, and she remembers buying George the phone and showing him how to work it. She thinks of him braving the cold on the outskirts of his family home, his fingers fumbling with the keys as he types and trying not to cross the magical barrier of the property line, and she smiles. Verity taps at the keys of her own cell phone until she's got a reply.

_I've got Jesus coursing through my veins as we speak._

The doorman opens the door for her and she hurries inside, into the warmth and the golden glow of the lobby. As she rides the elevator to the tenth floor, she thinks about what it would be like to spend the holidays with George, to listen to him laugh, to touch his hands and his face and back in front of their families and friends.

As she unlocks the door to her room, she feels her phone vibrate again and she smiles in anticipation.

It's just her brother, telling her that they miss her. She sends a text back and shuts off her phone, just so she doesn't have any excuse to wait.

* * *

Verity sleeps in the next morning, calls her mother as she orders in room service, and wishes everyone a Merry Christmas as they pass the phone around. It sounds like everyone is having fun with the presents she sent them, and for a second she wishes that she had gone home after all.

She spends the day watching old movies, mouthing the words along with the characters of _It's A Wonderful Life_ that she and her brothers memorized as children. She always had a bit of a crush on Jimmy Stewart. After the sun goes down she walks around the city for a bit, just to look at the lights. There's a park across the street from her hotel and she sits on a bench for awhile, staring up at the snow drifting down from the darkening sky. If she keeps her head bent, the way the snow spirals down makes her think of the star-covered ceiling at Hogwarts.

When she gets back to her room she changes into pajamas, orders some more room service, and grabs a drink from the mini bar. She's never been one for drinking, but its _Christmas_ and she need something to take her mind off of everything. She takes a sip of her beer, relishing the way the liquor feels on her tongue, when her phone rings for what might be the tenth time that day. She considers ignoring it because, as it turned out, spending the holiday by herself _wasn't_ the cure for loneliness she'd imagined it to be and every phone call from family or friend she's gotten today has only served to remind her of that fact.

She ends up answering on the last ring before the call gets sent to voicemail, and the laughing voice that replies to her greeting makes her grin at the phone and set down the bottle.

"For a minute there I thought you'd been struck by lightning…you know, smite-d or something after that message last night."

Verity imagines his smile, the hint of a dimple in his cheek.

"I hear that Jesus is a forgiving guy. Plus there's the whole '_it's-my-birthday!_' thing, which usually puts people in a good mood…I think I'm safe this time around."

There's a long moment where neither of them speaks and Verity takes a breath, preparing to break the silence. George beats her to it.

"So, I was thinking about..." George pauses and Verity wants to urge him on, to hear that he's been thinking about her as much as she's thought about him. But she doesn't and when he goes on, he doesn't finish the thought. "I just wanted to call and wish you a Merry Christmas, Ver."

She picks at a stray thread on the sleeve of her nightshirt and shakes her head, even though he can't see her. She's struck by the impulse to stop all of this nonsense, to stop hiding what she wants behind excuses of their work and his divorce and what other people will think.

"George," she begins, and she can hear the sudden intake of his breath on the other end of the line, like maybe he can hear how serious she is, like maybe he knows what she's going to say and he can't wait to hear it, or maybe doesn't want to hear it at all. The latter possibility stops her heart cold.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," Verity finishes, closing her eyes and biting her lower lip.

* * *

They don't talk again until New Year's Eve.

The dirty things she whispers into his ear as he moves inside her are only a fraction of what she really wants to say.

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	2. Peace on Earth, and Mercy Mild

I fully intended to have this up last week, but between work and school I haven't really had time to do anything other than sleep, lol. I hope to have eight fully completed fics posted before the month is over, and I am _definitely_ going to try and meet this deadline!

Also, seeing as how the prompt table for **TheOriginalHufflepuff's** _Twelve Fics of Christmas_ Challenge has disappeared, these are more-or-less just fics that are holiday-inspired, rather than prompt-driven. Ah, well…c'est la vie. :-)

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_Peace on Earth, and Mercy Mild_

* * *

He doesn't know when this…_infatuation_ starts.

All he knows is that one day, he looks over at her and realizes that she chews her lower lip in a rather adorable way. Audrey Davies doesn't catch him staring, but continues to stare at the spreadsheets spread out across her desk. Percy turns away, forcing himself to look back at the legal papers in front of him, at the window where charmed snow is falling outside the glass, at the framed photograph of Penelope that sits right next to his ink bottle. Penelope smiles up at him, waving occasionally before turning back to her book and Percy forces himself not to look at Audrey's back as she bends over her paperwork.

_I'm not going to do this_, he mutters to himself. _I'm not going to do this._

He doesn't look at her for the rest of the day, but all he can think about as he heads over to George's for dinner is of the smile she gave him as they waited for the elevator.

* * *

Audrey Davies is possibly the most infuriating woman on the planet.

Oh, he still thinks she's rather pretty, in that agreeable, girl-next-door type of way, but she is so unbelievably _opinionated_ and _arrogant_ in her speech that it makes whatever pleasant quality he'd originally found in her completely disappear whenever they start arguing during their lunch breaks.

Strong-willed, self-righteous, and a card-carrying member of _Muggleborns for Change_, Audrey seems to turn any offhand comment Percy makes into a personal offense, and when he casually mentions to another colleague that he was baffled that some families refused to let their children be buried at the War Memorial, she seems ready to start an all-out _war_.

"My brother _fought_ and _died_ in the Battle of Hogwarts," Audrey says, her hands clenched into tight fists against her sides as the other people on their floor stare on in disbelief. "The powers-that-be offered my parents a plot at the Memorial for him with all the other heroes."

"Exactly! Then you understand the point I'm _trying_ to make!"

She stares at him, anger and loathing and some sort of intense, fierce pride etched into every line of her face. "Muggles can't see the Memorial. How would you expect them to _mourn_, Weasley? Should they just stand outside the gate and have someone else put their flowers on a grave that they can't even _see?_"

He gapes at her, dumbstruck, and she purposely knocks into him with her shoulder as she rushes past him. The silence of the room breaks as the others go back to their business, hurriedly finishing their work before heading off to lunch. Dwight, their floor manager, stumbles past a few minutes later, his glasses askew and nearly knocking Percy to the ground when he skids to a halt right at his desk.

"Davies is _crying_ on the stairs," he sneers. "Going on about some _birthday_ that's coming up…hmph. _Women_."

He doesn't know how he arrives at the staircase. His legs, however leaden they might feel, have seemed to carry him to the staircase where Audrey is, her elbows resting on her knees and her head cradled in her hands; the soft sounds of her crying echoing across the empty hallway.

"Here," Percy says stiffly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her without much fanfare. "I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean any offense."

"I know. It's just, it's tough, you know? And Roger…he…he used to call me '_Kitten_'," she hiccups, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. Percy nods and sits quietly beside her, rubbing her back when the tears begin to flow again and trying to be comforting in this incredibly awkward situation. Her blue eyes are marred with red as she sobs into her hands like a child, crying for the older brother she lost all those years ago.

Audrey Davies may be the most infuriating woman on the planet, but Percy knows exactly how she feels.

* * *

He misses Penelope.

Not that it's a secret, or anything. She's been gone (not _dead_, never _dead_, just _gonegonegone_) almost seven years, now, and he hasn't found anyone else. He doesn't really want to find anyone, and for the most part his family has left him alone on the matter. But sometimes, he'll catch one of his parents watching him at their family dinners, their eyes darting back and forth between his other sons and their own wives and children and then back to lonely, single Percy, and Percy knows _exactly_ what they're thinking.

It's part of the reason why he pals around with equally-single Charlie, whenever he's in town. Why he donated most of Penelope's clothes after she died. Why he gave her jewelry back to her parents and most of her photographs to her brother and his Muggle wife and the tiny daughter they named in Penny's honor. But he couldn't get rid of everything. He keeps the remaining pictures out where company can see, and the loveseat from their old apartment, and most of the books on the shelf belonged to her, at one point. And deep in the recesses of his closet, behind the threadbare robes he doesn't wear anymore and tucked underneath the extra blankets his mother knitted, he keeps the pillow from her side of their shared bed.

He brings it out sometimes, when he's had a hard day at work or if he needs something to hold onto or if he just misses her too much. After all this time, it still smells like lavender and linen and _PennyPennyPenny_; charmed to stay that way not long after they buried her, back when he was terrified that the smell would fade and he would lose her all over again.

Percy runs his hand across the cloth of the pillowcase, thinking of how curly Penelope's hair was, and how it used to tickle his nose when he'd kiss her neck in the mornings. He closes his eyes and tries to picture her hair, and to remember how it used to feel when he would curl it around his fingers, but he can't. All he can see in his mind's eye is Audrey Davies' dark, straight hair, twisted into a tight bun against the nape of her neck, and the thought stops his heart cold.

Filled with shame, he puts away Penelope's pillow (_Penelope, remember her? You know, the love of your life?_) and lies awake for hours, staring at the ceiling above his bed and watching the light change as the night turns into day outside his window.

Almost against his will, he wonders what it would feel like to run his hands through Audrey's coal black hair.

* * *

The Inter-Departmental Christmas Party is, as usual, a complete and total _bust_.

Percy spends most of the evening leaning against the far wall of the office, nursing a glass of punch and watching the festivities unfold before him. So far, he's watched three of his co-workers slip off with their spouses, five sneak off with their secretaries, one potentially dangerous argument between the head of the Q.U.A.B.B.L.E. office and the Floo Transport Commissioner, and two different people spiking the punch with flasks hidden in their cloaks…not that it matters. The unofficial rule of the Ministry's holiday parties seems to consist of "_whatever happens here, stays here_."

And while that rule would definitely explain the karaoke tournament, it doesn't exactly shed any light on why Audrey Davies is stumbling around on the stage, singing _Santa Baby_ and precariously close to falling off the edge and landing on her face.

She nearly does, too, the heel of her shoe getting caught on the hem of her dress as she attempts to twirl seductively. Percy moves to catch her, but Dwight gets there first, Audrey falling into his arms before she can hit the ground. Dwight's wife – Percy thinks her name is Angela – taps her foot impatiently and checks her watch, and fixes her stern gaze on her husband in such a way that Percy is eerily reminded of his mother. Dwight thoughtfully chews on the inside of his cheek and passes Audrey into Percy's arms.

"Could you take her home, Perce? My wife and I have a, ah, _prior engagement_."

"I, ah, couldn't she just, er –"

"Good, good," Dwight grins, clapping Percy on the back. "She lives out in Leeds, and I can give you a galleon or two if you're going to take the Knight Bus. See you tomorrow, Percy!"

Dwight stuffs a money pouch into his pocket and practically sprints back to his wife, leaving a stunned Percy alone with a rather drunk young woman clinging to his arm for balance. Audrey moans and rests her head on his shoulder, lightheaded and dizzy from too much liquor. Nervously, Percy puts a hand on her waist as he helps her out to the lobby, using his other hand to hail the Knight Bus once they're out the door.

"You smell nice," she mutters, swaying a little as he helps her board the bus' rickety steps. He sits her up against the window and straps her in, tossing the money pouch to the conductor as the driver switches the gear back into drive. He is very nearly thrown from his seat when the bus takes off, forgetting to brace himself in his chair, and he and Audrey rock back and forth across the floor as they make the tempestuous journey from London to Leeds.

She smells like alcohol and peppermint and her skin is very, very warm under his hands as he helps her off of the bus, leading her to the door of the townhouse that the conductor miraculously found for them. She stumbles a bit in her high-heeled shoes as he helps her up the stairs, wobbling on uneasy feet as she digs through her purse for her house keys, and as she practically falls through the door of her home she thanks Percy for taking her home. When he finally Apparates back to his flat, Percy can still smell her perfume on his jacket.

What really surprises him is how little he minds it.

* * *

George drags him along when he goes gift shopping one afternoon, the two heading out into the crowds that fill Diagon Alley in search of presents for Fred and Roxie and Verity, who Percy suspects might be turning into something more than "_just a friend_", if the way George's face lights up every time he hears her name is any indication.

They buy Roxanne a book of Celestina Warbeck sheet music, and they eventually find the Brew-Your-Own-Potions kit that Fred wanted, and it's nearly dark by the time George drags him to Diamantina's Diamond Emporium, eagerly pointing out the engagement ring that he's had set aside for Verity.

There's another necklace on display – a simple sapphire in a silver setting – that makes Percy think of Audrey. The color reminds him of her eyes, and even though the thought of the silver chain resting against the creamy skin of her neck makes him blush, he wants to buy it. He wants to buy her something _pretty_, something _frivolous_ and _impractical_ and completely _useless_ that she can wear and think of him. He stares at the necklace under the glass of the jewelry counter as George pays the salesclerk for his purchase and makes a mental note of the price.

The next day, it takes him over an hour to work up the courage to walk inside, and another hour of "browsing" before he makes the conscious decision to purchase it. When he leaves with a necklace in his jacket pocket, tucked inside a box and wrapped in holiday paper, Percy feels like everyone that he passes on the street knows what he's hiding.

He feels like a thief, but Percy can't help but grin.

* * *

He has no idea why he is there – pacing back and forth in an alleyway down the block from Audrey Davies' townhouse, muttering to himself like a crazy person as he does so – but in truth, he does know. The small box in his hand, wrapped in red paper and tied with a green ribbon, is his reason. He can see her house from where he stands, the inviting, golden light shining through the windows and reflecting onto the snow-covered streets around him making him think of the party his parents are throwing back at the Burrow, and of all the time he's wasting _here_ instead of being _there_.

It takes him twenty minutes of pacing before he is able to walk up to her door, and another five before he can work up the courage to ring the bell. He's lucky – she answers the door before any of her inebriated relatives can. She's wearing a Christmas jumper and she has a red ribbon in her hair, and if she's surprised to see him she doesn't let it show.

"I…I bought you something," he says hurriedly, pressing the small box into her hands before she can say anything. Audrey skeptically raises an eyebrow but tears open the paper anyways.

"It's…it's…oh, _wow_, Percy," she murmurs. "It's beautiful!"

She flings her arms around him and he's caught off-balance, nearly falling backwards as she wraps her arms around his neck. She still smells like peppermint, and the red of the ribbon against the black of her hair makes him think of Gryffindor, rather than Christmas. She pulls away quickly, as if she'd just realized the awkwardness of the situation, murmuring her thanks as she stares at the necklace.

"Do you, er, want to come inside?" she asks. Percy looks past her, into the hallway behind her. He can hear her family from beyond the doorway, laughter and chatter and the soft sounds of a piano being played, and for a split-second, he wants to.

"Thanks, but I've got a party of my own to get to."

He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket and rocks on the balls of his feet, and Audrey smiles, turning the necklace over in her hands.

"Alright then…Merry Christmas, Percy."

"Merry Christmas, Audrey," he says, turning away and starting down the front stairs. But before he can take a step, Audrey catches him by the arm.

"Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?"

He grins. "I'm having breakfast with my family, but otherwise, nothing. Why?"

"Do you maybe want to go for dinner, or something? I know a place in Diagon that's never too crowded, if you'd want to go."

"I'd like that."

They stare awkwardly at each other for a few moments, the silence and the falling snow filling the space between them. Audrey moves forward just as Percy leans down and the two bump heads, laughing as they pull back and Audrey presses a hand to her forehead, the silver chain glittering through her fingers as it catches the light of the streetlamp.

"So I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"It's a date." Percy leans down and kisses her cheek, and Audrey waves from the doorstep as he walks down to the end of her block. The snow crunches under his feet as he heads back to the alleyway he'd Apparated from, and when he gets back to the Burrow he shakes the cold from his bones as he hangs his coat in the front hall. Rose and Al and Jamie catch him in the hallway before he can call out in greeting, their tiny hands clutching his pant legs as Rose searches through his pockets for candy. George stumbles in a few minutes later, scooping Rose up and giving Percy an odd look over the top of her head, but Percy ignores it.

_It's a start_, he thinks as Al and Jamie grab his hands and lead him into the dining room. _It's not much, but it's a start._


	3. Happy Christmas :War is Over:

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! It really means a lot that you leave me these little notes and they really just brighten my day. :D

And while I know that this is a little (okay, a _lot_) shorter than the other chapters, but it was the first time I've written Harry/Ginny and I'm a little nervous as to how it's turned out. Ah, well…

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Happy Christmas (War Is Over)

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The first Christmas that follows the War, Harry is relieved enough to simply have escaped the overwhelmingly tight press of bodies inside Grimmauld Place that he doesn't mind when someone else comes out to join him. Ginny quietly sits beside him on the back steps that overlook the dilapidated courtyard, and they both watch the sky beyond the trees, the icy branches aglow with the golden light of the sunset. She's in a skirt and no shoes, her long legs stretched out despite the cold; wet spots appearing into the striped fabric of her Christmas socks from where she stepped and the pale, freckled skin of her legs practically glowing in contrast with the white of the snow _(which only reminds him of how much he wants to touch her, right here and right now, and damn the fact that her family is right on the other side of the door)_.

Inside, the Weasleys and the Order and the D.A. and a few dozen others are eating and drinking and laughing and toasting one another, the Ministry, and the finishing of the repairs to Hogwarts; all of them celebrating the upcoming year _(and, even if they don't say it out loud, they're celebrating the fact that they all survived to see it)_. They even toasted him, raising their glasses to where he sat at the middle of the table _(not the head, even though it's his house and it's his party)_, but Harry just smiled like he always did and sipped his cider, trying his hardest to fade into the wallpaper behind him.

It's all still a little surreal, the way everyone treats him – even if he's been _The-Boy-Who-Lived_ since before he was old enough to understand what those words even meant. But it's over now…the fighting and the War and that oppressive, stifling fear that has blanketed them all for the past three years is fading away, and the future is a billion possibilities laid out glittering before everyone, brighter than ever and shining like diamonds in the sunset. Kingsley cornered him about a job in the Auror department _(way back in June, and right before heading back to the Ministry)_, Professor McGonagall _(not "Minerva", __**never**__ "Minerva")_ offered him the Defense post at Hogwarts, and Professor Slughorn's friends have been hounding him for an autobiography since the day after Voldemort was buried _(right along with all the job offers they've thrown at him, sandwiched in between compliments and brandy and the promise of a seven-volume book deal)_. He hasn't told them his choice yet – he hasn't told _anyone_ yet – but it makes so much sense that he's surprised that it took him this long to make up his mind.

Ginny touches his hand, her fingers gentle and soft as they curl around his own and her perfume filling his nostrils as she lays her head on his shoulder. He turns to see the fading sunlight turning Ginny's hair into winter fire, and he can't help but wonder if his future might just be the brightest of them all.


	4. With Royal Beauty Bright

I had planned to have this up last week, but between exams ending and holiday planning and work practically taking over my life, this kind of got lost in the shuffle. So I'm posting it today (ridiculously early in the morning, too) so that I can enjoy my first day off from work in a week AND my twentieth birthday in peace!

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With Royal Beauty Bright

* * *

Pansy Finch-Fletchley has no use for the fanfare or the intricacies of "_high society_", feeling no need to emulate the weak, ultra-feminine qualities of a pureblooded woman that were instilled in her from birth. She married a Muggleborn and writes books that tell the truth about "_crossing blood lines_" and the "_dirty underside_" of Pureblood Society.

At nearly eight months pregnant, she wears nothing but men's pajamas and Justin's old oxford shirts that button down the front (but are _never_ undone past the third button – she might be married, but she is still a _lady_) and dreams about the denims and skirts and thick wool jumpers she'll wear again once the baby is born.

Her hair is black like her father's, her eyes are green like her mother's, and her skin is pale against the green of the bedsheets, Justin's olive skin contrasting starkly against her own when he presses a hand to her belly, eager to feel the new life growing there.

Her family threatened that she would lose herself if she chose her husband over them; lose her common sense and her decency and her dignity and whatever claim she had on the Parkinson fortune, but it's been five years since her parents erased her from their record books and Pansy still feels the same.

Sometimes, she wonders if it should bother her.

* * *

Justin goes to work early one morning, leaving a note on their kitchen table that asks her to pick up some bread and milk and to get a few things for the dinner he plans on making for her at the little grocery store in town. The keys to his car – _their_ car, she has to keep reminding herself, it's _their_ car – are lying next to the note, but Pansy ignores them as she pulls on her coat, choosing to take her broomstick instead. Pansy takes her time as she flies, making lazy circles over the snow-covered road that leads to their house and wincing a little at the feel of the cold wind rushing through her hair.

She lands in the empty car park at the edge of town and hides her broomstick as best she can behind a trash bin. She tugs at her clothes as she makes her way down the street, feeling self-conscious and out of place in the little Northampton village they've settled down in.

Deep down, she knows that she can never pass for a Muggle, but she's still pureblood enough to not consider this a failing.

* * *

One morning, Justin rushes through breakfast like a whirlwind, eating quickly and making lots of noise as he does so, but never saying anything. Pansy shoots him a worried look, her words too tangled up in her sleep-addled brain to say anything resembling human speech, and Justin simply straightens his tie and kisses her cheek as he tosses some Floo powder into the fireplace. He gives her a quick wave before the green flames engulf him, but Pansy catches that brief, troubled look that clouds his eyes before he disappears. She's never seen him look so old.

_Everyone's grown older_, Pansy muses to herself, levitating the breakfast dishes into the sink. For a brief instant, she thinks of the last time she saw her mother, through the glass of the apothecary window as Genevieve Parkinson regally made her way down Diagon Alley, Pansy's younger brother Arden and his pretty new wife trailing wearily behind her. Genevieve had looked the same – not a blonde hair out of place and her makeup immaculate – but she looked _tired_. She'd looked _older_, somehow; worn-down in a way that Pansy never remembered her mother being.

She spends her day lounging about the house and ignoring all the work she should be doing, and after the long, luxurious bubble bath she'd been promising herself for weeks, Pansy slides her hand across the steamy surface of the mirror and stares at her reflection for a long time, looking for the family she'd lost hidden in her features.

Her nose still turns up like her father's and her brother's does. Her eyes still have that strange tinge of gold around the iris like her mother's. She looks like proper pureblood breeding stock, hips widening and curves appearing for the child she is about to bring into this world – a child her parents would have drowned the moment it was out of her grasp, had they been given the chance. Pansy absentmindedly places a hand on her stomach and wonders which side of its' family the child will take after.

* * *

"It's snowing outside," Justin comments one morning as they read the _Sunday Prophet_ in bed, newspaper scattered across their heavy winter bedcovers and Pansy focused more on the crossword than her husband.

"Is it, now?" she answers distractedly, tapping her quill against the paper as she tries to think of a seven-letter word for "_treasure-seeking animal_".

"We should go outside today…build a snowman, or something."

"Mm-hmm."

"Andromeda Tonks is coming by tomorrow to talk about a new project she wants to start, and I think she might be bringing her grandson with her. We could always just wait and build it then. I think Teddy would like that."

"Possibly."

"I've also been thinking about names for the baby."

"That's nice, dear."

"I think that Philip James is good for a boy, but if it's a girl I think that Amaranthe Hippolyta would be perfect."

"Mm-hmm….wait, you think _what?_"

Justin smiles and pulls the quill from her hand. "Come on, now, Pansy, focus. Let's do something fun today."

He kisses her shoulder and Pansy can't help but smile at his touch.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. I'm just ticklish there," she says, feeling his fingers on the flesh between her shoulder blades and the strap of her nightgown. The newspaper dangles precariously on the edge of the bed, too caught amongst their tangled blankets to fall. Justin tosses the quill onto the floor and his hand travels down her back.

"Here?"

"Yes! Come on, stop it! It _tickles!_" Pansy squeals as his hands trace the area again. She falls into the pillows as he kisses her neck, his lips lingering over her cheek, her ear. She shivers and laughs underneath him, his breath warm on her skin. "Justin, stop!"

"Sorry, love, but I can't do that," Justin laughs, a cheeky grin turning up the corner of his mouth. Pansy laughs again, echoing giddily across the few rooms of their house, Justin's hands soft against her skin as his fingers skate across her body. They stay like that for a while, Pansy writhing in gleeful agony until she hits Justin upside his head with a pillow, the two locked in a furious battle over who can make the other laugh more until they fall backwards into the tousled bedding, exhausted.

"This might be one of the best days I've ever had," Justin says, tiredly twirling a lock of Pansy's hair around his finger when she rests her head on his chest.

"Even though you spent most of it in bed?"

"I'm talking about being with you, you daft, silly twit," he says. "Don't you agree?"

"No." Pansy answers firmly, but the smile that spreads itself across her face betrays her true feelings.

* * *

At the Auror Corps annual New Year's Eve gala, Pansy and Justin arrive an hour late. They stumble in through the fireplace in the entrance hall, Justin shaking the soot from his clothes and Pansy trying her hardest not to bump into the dessert tray some careless caterer had left in front of the massive hearth.

"You've got lipstick on your collar," she mutters quietly, adjusting the lapel of Justin's suit jacket so that the shirt beneath it doesn't show.

"That's not the only place," he murmurs back, winking at her as he brushes soot off the bodice of her dress. She blushes and grins wickedly – _a side effect of the pregnancy hormones, that's all it is_, she keeps telling herself – and Pansy starts scanning the nearly-empty hall for a cloakroom or an alcove that they can disappear to.

Unfortunately, Asteria Malfoy sees them first. She lets out a shriek of excitement and rushes over to the fireplace – Draco in one hand and a ginger ale in the other – her hugely pregnant stomach leading the way.

"Pansy, _darling!_" she cries, grasping Pansy's shoulder and kissing both of her cheeks. "We were wondering when you two would arrive!"

"Er, we were a little tied up at home. Justin got home later than he thought he would, and then I couldn't find my shoes, and, well…one thing led to another, and before we knew it, we were late!"

Over his wife's shoulder, Draco raises an eyebrow. "I doubt you could find anything, trying to look over that stomach of yours, Pansy. You look like you're ready to pop."

"Well, thank you, Captain Obvious. Maybe you should stop harassing poor, defenseless pregnant women and start spreading the word about orange being a fruit and a color."

Asteria snorts into her ginger ale and Justin suppresses a laugh of his own, while Draco only smirks and holds out his elbow for Pansy to take.

"I'm glad to see that the pregnancy hormones haven't completely drained you of a sense of humor, unlike _some people_ I could mention." Draco looks pointedly at his wife, who in turn rolls her eyes and loops her arm through Justin's as they all head towards the ballroom.

"Oh, _really_. Just because _you_ find the joke about the Healer, the hag, and the _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_ unbelievably amusing, it doesn't mean that everyone _else_ will, too."

The party is in full-swing as the four of them enter the room, and Pansy spends more time fending off questions about the baby than she does doing anything else. Everyone wants to know when she's due (_mid-January_), if she knows the sex (_it's a surprise_), if they've thought of names for it yet (_again, it's a surprise_). Justin is no help, taking the first opportunity he can to rush off with Draco for drinks and never return, waving at Pansy from across the ballroom where he and Draco are leaning against a column, raising their respective glasses of champagne in a mock toast to their wives. The only thing that brightens her spirits a little is the fact that Asteria is in the same position as she is, wearily trying to fend off yet another woman eager to hear the details about the unborn Malfoy child.

"Honestly," Asteria groans, sinking into the chair next to Pansy's. "It's as if these people have never heard of babies before."

Pansy nods, ready to make some mildly cynical comment about the Weasleys and their ever-expanding brood, but something stops her.

"I didn't think that they would be inviting people of _your_ class tonight, _Mrs. Finch-Fletchley_," a cold, familiar voice says from somewhere behind her. "But then, I guess that blood really no longer accounts for anything, these days."

Pansy turns, and the sight of the speaker makes her blood run cold. Arden, young, handsome Arden, stands behind her with his arms crossed over his chest, a drink in one hand and his wand in the other. He makes pleasantries with Asteria over Pansy's head, making snide little allusions to the life she'd left behind and the people she chooses to associate with, these days, and Pansy can't help but stare at him and wish that she could just fall through the floor. She makes an excuse to Asteria about not feeling well, hoping to escape and hide for a little while, but Arden follows her out through the entrance hall, the pureblood diatribe he spouts making her toes curl. He grabs her, pushing her against the wall, when Justin appears from nowhere, grasping Arden's wrist and pulling him away.

"I think you should leave her alone." He says coolly, his fingers biting into Arden's flesh. Arden shoves him back, hard, breaking Justin's hold, making him stumble. He straightens with lightning speed, and Arden finds himself looking at the end of Justin's wand.

He raises his hands slowly, carefully. "Are you sure you want to do this with a room full of Aurors right behind you, Mudblood?" he asks coldly. "No matter what you think has changed, blood still matters. They won't believe a word you say, you know. Who in their right mind would listen to a filthy blood-traitor whore like her?"

A muscle twitches in Justin's cheek, and for a long, dreadful moment Pansy is positive Arden is about to receive a hexing he won't soon forget. Arden's head rocks back seconds later and he falls, hand going to his face, jaw working to ensure nothing is broken and blood pouring from his nose. Justin stands over him, his wand still clenched in one fist, the other fist empty.

"Stay away from her." Justin's voice is harsh with anger. "If you ever try doing this again, I'll be on you quicker than you can say _Protego_. Understand?"

He nods stiffly, eyes darting back and forth between his sister and his attacker, and he turns and rushes back into the ballroom like the devil is on his heels, not even stopping to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. Pansy falls then, leaning against the wall behind her and sinking to the ground, her head cradled in her hands.

"You didn't have to do that," she says thickly, unshed tears clinging to her eyelashes and threatening to fall. "I think you broke his nose."

Justin shrugs. "He shouldn't have said that."

"I…I know. I know that you did what you thought was right. But…but he's my _brother_, Justin! I thought he was _better_ than them! How…how could they _change_ him like that?"

Justin doesn't say anything; simply sitting beside her and wrapping his arm around her shoulder when Pansy bursts into tears. They stay like that for a time, Pansy crying into Justin's shoulder and mourning the family she's lost (_for good this time,_ she keeps reminding herself, _there's no going back now_), letting him hold her and rock her until she calms down.

"Let's go home, okay?"

Pansy nods, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, and Justin helps her to her feet. She can hear the party guests counting down the seconds until the New Year, and for a brief moment she thinks that she can see Arden's profile standing in the doorway, watching her and Justin gather themselves and leave.

She thinks she sees him, but deep down she knows that it is only wishful thinking.

* * *


	5. I'm Just Gonna Keep On Waiting

Alternate titles for this chapter:_ Underneath the Mistletoe_, _Simple as a Kiss,_ and my favorite, _It May Be Just the Stars So Bright_.

Happy Holidays, Everyone! Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Joyful Kwanzaa! Happy Festivus!

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* * *

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I'm Just Gonna Keep on Waiting

* * *

The fact that Lily Luna Potter once snogged Scorpius Malfoy is not exactly common knowledge. It was the December of 2023, at the Ministry's Annual Christmas Party, and he was eighteen to her just-turned fifteen, dressed in navy robes and somehow looking more handsome than Lily could remember him being. They were bored and restless that night, surrounded by the noisy chatter of the guests and old enough to not be "_properly watched_" by their parents for the entire night, and they had managed to somehow slip off to some dark cloakroom and talk for a few hours.

Well…_Scorpius_ talked. Lily seemed to only be there to listen, barely able to get a word in edgewise as he went on and on about music and Potions and his upcoming Juriswizard apprenticeship and anything that was _not_ Rose Weasley; even though every word he said seemed to have Lily's third-favorite cousin hiding right behind it.

He stopped talking when she asked him if he was ever going to do something about his crush on her cousin, raising his eyebrows and looking scandalized. He denied it, of course, busying himself with adjusting the sleeves and collar of his robes and pretending that he didn't understand her question. She leaned in then, her face inches from his, and called him a liar right before she kissed him.

She didn't really fancy Scorpius, but she was single and lonely and tired of listening to him yammer on about Rose the Perfect Prefect…and she'd always vaguely wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. She doesn't really remember much about what happened afterwards, but she distinctly remembers hoping that Rose wouldn't hear about it – or, for that matter, Hugo or Louis – even though that fear was unfounded. Louis was in France, Rose was off dancing with Faolan, and Hugo was busy under the mistletoe by then – too caught up in the feel of Violet Finch-Fletchley's lips against his to care about whatever it was that Lily was doing.

It was far from the best kiss of her life, but it was good fun while it lasted. Scorpius and Rose got together a few months later – much to the shock and surprise of both their families – and Lily found other boys to make her happy. But sometimes, when they're at family parties or public functions together, Lily can't help but wonder if Scorpius ever thinks about that brief moment they shared together.

She certainly does.

* * *

When she's younger, Victoire Weasley is absolutely _certain_ that she's going to be a Squib. After all, she's eight years old, and as hard as she tries she _still_ hasn't shown any signs of magic. Nana Molly keeps telling her that it's okay to be a "_late bloomer_", and her dad told her once that her Uncle Charlie didn't show any signs of magic until he was nine and he works with _dragons_ now, but that doesn't change the fact that Dom and Fred and Roxie and even tiny _Jamie_ – who is four years old and still thinks that it's a smart idea to pull on Crookshanks' tail – have all done something that proves that they belong in this family, and she hasn't done anything yet. And it _definitely_ doesn't help that the ordinarily-fun family party Uncle Harry and Auntie Ginny host at Grimmauld Place is growing steadily worse, especially since Uncle George keeps trying to trick her into showing magic, regardless of the danger that dangling her out one of the bedroom windows provides.

She ducks out of the party in the main room and heads down the steep stairs that lead to the kitchen; nearly empty now that her mother and Nana Molly have taken all the food to the dining room upstairs. Kreacher totters past her with a plate full of Christmas cookies, and as she pulls a chair out from the heavy wooden table, Victoire focuses all of her energy on levitating one of the gingerbread men from the platter to her open palm.

It doesn't work. All she's left with is an empty hand and a splitting headache, and this painful, aching hole somewhere inside her heart that she can't find the words to describe. She buries her head in her arms, her long, chaotically curly hair hiding her face as she tries her hardest not to cry.

"Vicky?"

Her head snaps up at the voice in the doorway, terrified that it's one of her aunts or uncles, but it's only Teddy Lupin. His hair is striped green and red for Christmas, and Victoire bites back the hurtful comment she wants to spit out at him. It's not _his_ fault that he's been able to do magic since before he could walk. It's not _his_ fault that she's down here feeling sorry for herself. It's not _his_ fault that he's oblivious to what she's really feeling, or even that he's sweet and just wants to make her feel better.

"C'mon, now, cheer up! Merry Christmas, Victoire!"

He loops his arm around her shoulders, and unexpectedly kisses her on the cheek. She freezes and doesn't know what to do – the only person who's ever kissed her is her dad and her grandpa, and the place where Teddy's lips touched her cheek is buzzing, like she'd just touched one of those eclectic fences Papa Arthur told her about – but when he laughs, she does too. Teddy ruffles her hair affectionately and takes her hand in his, leading her back up the stairs.

_Maybe everyone's right_, she thinks, watching Teddy swipe a cookie off of an end table and breaking it in half. _Maybe there really is plenty of time._

Above the doorway that leads into the kitchen, a sprig of mistletoe suddenly blossoms.

* * *

He's been sitting alone in a corner of The Leaky Cauldron for the past two hours, nursing a pint and waiting for Susan to finish up at St. Mungo's and meet him there. She'd promised to be there at seven, when her shift ended, but the watch on his wrist reads nine-thirty and she still isn't there. He takes another gulp of his drink, eyes scanning the slowly-emptying bar for the familiar form of his girlfriend.

"Another round, Hannah?"

He raises his empty tumbler, and Hannah Abbott smiles at him from her place behind the bar. She's been stacking glasses underneath the counter as patrons filed out for the night, and she wipes her hands on a dishrag before picking up a bottle of Irish Stout.

"Girl troubles, Longbottom?"

He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, and she laughs.

"We get a lot of those in here. Cheer up, Neville," she says as she pours him another drink. "Things could be worse. Susan probably got caught up in her work and lost track of time. She was like that back at Hogwarts, you know…bombs could have been going off in the Common Room, but Susan would've been too absorbed in her Charms essay to notice."

Neville laughs despite himself and reaches inside his jacket for a few galleons, but Hannah clucks at him and pushes his money back into his hand.

"It's on the house, Nev. I'm not going to tell you again."

Her hand lingers over his for a brief moment, soft and pale against his, and it sends a bit of a chill down his spine. She turns away and Neville tells himself that is was the alcohol that did it; he's never been much of a drinker and here he is, knocking them back like an expert as he waits for someone who probably forgot about him.

"You're probably right," he says, sliding a galleon across the gleaming countertop anyways, hiding it under a napkin so that Hannah won't see it. "It's happened before."

She turns back with a butterbeer in her hand, raising it up in a mock toast before taking a sip.

"Should you be drinking your own stock?"

Hannah shrugged. "I won't tell if you won't."

She asks him about his work at Hogwarts, then – asking after Professor Sprout and about his work in the greenhouses – and he is more than happy to fill her in. He likes talking with Hannah, even if he keeps stumbling over his words and his head suddenly feels like its' been filled with cotton fluff, because she seems genuinely interested and curious about his life; as compared to Susan, who feels the need to discuss every tiny detail of her work in the Dai Llewellyn Ward and never let him get a word in edgewise, but the bitterness he's been feeling towards Susan might just be the result of all the liquor he's consumed.

She laughs at his stories and pulls the ribbon from her hair as he speaks, fluffing it out with her fingers as it falls around her shoulders. In the dim light of the bar, Neville thinks that it looks like a halo, but again, that might just be the drink talking.

He almost tells her this, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth, and Susan picks that exact moment to rush in from the cold of Muggle London, snow on her heels and an apology on her lips as she wraps her arms around Neville's shoulders. Hannah offers her a drink, but responsible young MediWitch that she is, Susan declines. Hannah smiles and goes back to stacking chairs on tables and glasses under the bar, and Susan whispers incredibly naughty things into his ear while Hannah has her back turned.

They go to her place in Diagon because its closer, and because there's no way in _Hell_ that Neville would be able to Apparate anywhere without seriously splinching himself. She pulls him close when they get to her doorway, perfume filling up his nostrils and his legs wobbling beneath him, and when he pulls her close for a kiss Susan's hair is unnaturally brittle in his hands; the result of too many curling and styling charms, but she moans at his touch and it's enough to push the negative feelings he'd had towards her out of his thoughts.

Strangely enough, Neville thinks of Hannah's golden hair as Susan leads him to bed, and he wonders how it would feel between his fingers.

It must be the alcohol.

* * *


	6. Merry and Bright

* * *

Well…this is quite late, isn't it? Hanukkah's over, Christmas is over, we're into a New Year, and the story I swore to myself I'd finish in eight days or less is still unfinished. I blame real life drama rearing its ugly head – Curse You, Reality! *dramatically shakes fist towards ceiling* – and interfering with all of the opportunities that I had to work on these three last chapters. So hopefully, some nice Ron/Hermione New Year's fluff will make up for all the time I lost.

Happy New Year everybody!

* * *

_Merry and Bright_

* * *

She's wearing the dress she wore to Bill and Fleur's wedding, and he's wearing his father's second-hand dress robes, but even then they don't fit in at the "dressy-dress-and-fancy-suit" restaurant that Percy and Penelope decided to hold their annual New Year's party in.

Ginny switches seats so that Ron can sit next to Hermione and she can sit next to Harry, and no one at their tiny table in the corner can seem to stop grinning. Hermione leans against Ron's shoulder and he plays with the ends of her hair, both of them watching as Percy leads his wife out onto the dance floor. And when the band leader opens the floor to everyone else, Hermione pulls him out of his chair.

It doesn't make a difference, at first – her head stays on his shoulder and his fingers are still in her hair – but then they're swaying slowly, and they're not talking - and suddenly they fit with the rest of the crowd that moves around them; quiet, thoughtful. And then he presses his lips to her hair and she rubs her nose against his shoulder and they move in closer still to each other and she laughs as his fingers brush her hip and they're back to _not_ fitting again – they're Ron and Hermione.

Like always.

They're more comfortable now than they ever thought they could be, six months since a certain kiss, and another six months after that since heart-to-hearts in the quiet corner of a library and a room above The Leaky Cauldron. They _fit_. She's shorter than him and his hands are bigger than hers but they actually_ fit_ when they're together. And they're different from what they were a year ago, but they're different from what they were six months ago, too…maybe that's why they work.

They fit each other, and it doesn't matter if they don't fit anyone else.

When they leave, long before the clock strikes midnight, they're smiling and laughing and they may have drunk more wine than they should have and they still can't care less. They stumble upstairs and change, Ron wearing his old Cannons t-shirt and Hermione the nightgown she left last week and they eat the cold pizza Harry kept in a container marked _Don't Touch – Ron, This Means You!_ Ron turns on the radio and they sway to the music, both out of sync with the beat and laughing all the while.

Their movements don't fit, but _they_ still do.

* * *

Hermione angrily stomps out of the bathroom, throwing towels off of hangers and soaps off of sinks. Ron steps back and sighs, resting his head against the doorway of their bedroom.

"Nothing!" Hermione cried, waving the pregnancy test in the air for impact. "This isn't _fair!_ I don't want to be one of those couples who, who _tries_ for a dozen years and never gets anywhere until one day, _**BAM!**_ Then they're fifty-three years old and wrinkled and they _finally_ have a kid! Ugh!" She flops face-first onto the bed and buries her face in a pillow. "This is the most miserable holiday I've ever had."

"Hermione," he says, falling onto the bed next to her. "It'll happen when it happens. This isn't something you can force…and besides, we won't be like that. At fifty-three, I'd like to think we'll we'd be that hip old couple those other parents in the park wish that they could be."

She moans dramatically into the pillow. "But it's not _fair_."

"I know it isn't."

"Harry and Ginny are on their second already! And I _can't_…" She trails off, shakes her head, and then props herself up on her elbows. "We'll keep trying. Practice makes perfect, right?"

"Yeah," Ron says, wrapping his arms around her waist. "And one day, we'll get a little girl with yellow bows in her hair."

Hermione smiles. "And a yellow dress that matches, don't forget that."

"And lots of freckles, too."

"And hair like mine."

"Merlin, I hope not."

The two laughed half-heartedly and Ron pulls her close, and above the mantel in their sitting room, a clock strikes twelve.

* * *

An old pair of jeans. An t-shirt of his from The Wheeze. A ridiculous, sparkly New Year's hat that her mother sent her. Her infectious grin.

Hermione is wearing all of these things when, for the millionth time, she stops his heart.

To him, she's that girl – the one who is just as stunning in baggy sportswear as she is in evening gowns. She'd tried to put on a dress, wanting to ring in the new year with a bit of class and grace since both Hugo and Rosie are down for the night, but he'd torn it off of her in a fit of kisses. Smiling and protesting as his lips trailed across her collarbone, she'd told him that she just wanted to look beautiful for him, self-deprecatingly adding _"for a change"_ before pulling him closer.

Prior to tackling her, he'd told her the truth: he's thought she was beautiful since the first time he saw her – _really_ saw her – and as long as his diamond remains on her finger, he doesn't give a damn what else she wears.

And so, seconds before the New Year, he sees her for all that she is: an inevitable combination of the two of them. His clothes, lovingly embracing her even when he's away; a silly-looking New Year's hat, because he is the one who gets to kiss her at midnight, tonight, and every night; her smile, rivaled only by his own, filled with the amazingly persistent happiness they have found together. The ring, a tangible assertion of a promise that's been evolving since a certain cloud of canaries dug their beaks into his flesh.

Somewhere, a ball drops, cheers erupt, millions kiss. But the combined passion of all of these gestures pales in comparison to the rush he feels merely standing in the same room with her.

Hermione Granger is his, finally his, forever his.

His grin is so wide it almost hurts. "What?" she asks, almost self-consciously, sweeping back stray curls that have managed to escape the clutches of her absurd party hat.

"We get a Leap Second, Granger," he replies, surprised at his ability to form words. "The universe's messed itself up so that I'd get an extra moment with you."

And then she's kissing him with the same intensity he's feeling, pressing against him with an urgency that, rather than dissipating as their relationship lengthens, seems only to have intensified.

"I love you," she whispers, lips grazing his jaw. "And I find that many things about the universe are messed up when I'm not right here in your arms."


	7. Wizards in Winter

One chapter left! Whoo! While I have enjoyed writing all of these, I think this one might just be my favorite of the bunch. ;-)

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* * *

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Wizards in Winter

* * *

It starts with static.

He sees her standing by herself over by the punch bowl, watching Scorpius Malfoy spin her cousin across the dance floor, and Faolan is quiet as he approaches her. He taps her shoulder to get her attention, and there it is; literal static, passing from his fingers to the place at her shoulder where the strap of her dress meets her skin. Lily flinches and pulls away from him, her mouth falling open into a round '_O_' as she gives a little gasp of surprise.

And this is the moment where Faolan notices –_ really_ notices – the shape of her mouth and the dark pink of her lips, full and polished from her lip gloss. To his dawning horror he thinks he might be staring, and he realizes – almost as if from a distance – that he wants to know how she _tastes_.

But she either doesn't notice him gawking at her or doesn't care, and Lily just smiles at him beatifically, gesturing out towards the crowd with her free hand and making some comment he doesn't quite hear. Lily turns to pour him a drink, and Faolan shakes himself, feeling as if he'd somehow fallen asleep. She looks different in her dress, the blue satin and tulle incredibly bright and unusual compared to the grey cardigan and skirt he is so used to seeing her wear. He glances at the floor, stares at polished leather of his shoes, and tries to count as high as he can before she turns back around – hoping that he isn't as bright red from embarrassment as he thinks.

"Can you believe this?" she laughs, passing him a glass of punch. "Rose and Malfoy are _getting along_. They are _getting along_ and _dancing_. They are _getting along_ and _dancing_ and I'm pretty sure _Rose_ just made a _joke_."

"That's horrible," he says shakily, taking a sip of his drink.

"It's hilarious."

"It's hilarrible, then."

Lily smiles and shifts from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable in her high heeled shoes. They talk a while longer, wondering what could be in the punch to get Scorpius and Rose to act cordial to each other and whether or not Ted Lupin is going to murder someone, purely based on the dirty looks he keeps sending to an unknown person across the dance floor. Faolan's drink trembles slightly in his hand as he realizes how hyperaware he is of Lily's proximity to him, and it's all just really, really _weird_ because he's never actually thought about Lily like this before.

"Do you want to dance with me?" Lily asks him as the current song fades, catching him off guard. He coughs, choking on his own tongue in his haste to spit out a reply, and Lily claps him on the back in an effort to help him regain his bearings. But before he can answer Rose appears at his side, tugging on his arm and thanking Lily for keeping her date entertained.

Lily gives a half-hearted wave as Rose pulls him back onto the dance floor, a bemused little smile on her face as Rose wraps her arms around his shoulders. The song quickens and he twirls Rose about, laughing as she tells him how she had to rescue Scorpius Malfoy from the clutches of Theresa McLaggen, but when he glances over her shoulder to see if Lily is still standing by herself, all he can see is the back of her head as she and Malfoy walk away.

Rose digs her fingers painfully into his shoulder and while he isn't sure why, the odd little ache that accompanies seeing the place where Lily used to be hurts more than he thinks it should.

* * *

"Look at them!" Teddy snarls. "Making _eyes_ at each other across the room like they're _teenagers_, or something!"

Victoire turns her head towards Teddy, the red slowly creeping into the temples of his dark brown hair a sure indication of his anger. Teddy growls and Victoire is almost positive she knows who he's talking about, but asks him all the same.

"Who are you looking at?"

"Grandromeda!" he exclaims, twirling Victoire around as he does so. "And Minister Shacklebolt! They're acting like a pair of lovesick puppies, and it's making me _sick!_"

Victoire searches the crowd for the two people as Teddy spins her back into his arms, finally catching sight of Teddy's grandmother and the Minister for Magic. They stand off to the side of the dais that holds the band, champagne glasses in hand and smiling in a way that Victoire has never seen on either of them. Kingsley Shacklebolt leans in close, touching Andromeda Tonks' arm with obvious affection as he whispers something in her ear, and Teddy holds Victoire tight, guiding her across the floor as they nearly collide with her cousin Rose and Scorpius Malfoy.

"Let me get this straight: you're boiling mad at the woman who raised you, and it's all because she and Kingsley are having a polite conversation?"

"A polite conversation? _A polite conversation?_ He's hitting on her! The _Minister_ is hitting on my _grandmother!_ I won't stand for this! Why, I have a half a mind to –"

Victoire sighs and places both of her hands on Teddy's cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss before playfully cuffing him upside his head.

"You're insane. Has anyone ever told you that before?"

"What are you talking about, Weasley?" he scowls. "I'm _not_ insane."

"Of course not. And these are the ramblings of a perfectly sane person. Leave them _alone_, Ted…doesn't your grandmother deserve a little bit of happiness?"

Teddy sputters indignantly for a moment, but he eventually leaves the matter alone and they both just continue dancing; the music growing softer and the space between them becoming tighter as the night wears on.

Across the floor, Victoire can see Kingsley and Andromeda in a similar position, but even _she_ knows better than to point it out to her fiancé.

_

* * *

_

_Theresa McLaggen is too arrogant for her own damn good_, James thinks as he watches Malfoy latch on to her like a mollusk. He cracks his knuckles threateningly from the sidelines of the dance floor, hoping that Malfoy sees him and gets the message; she might be an egotistical brat, but she's still a lady, and his parents raised him right.

Theresa's the best Quidditch Beater Slytherin has seen in a long time, but the problem is that she _knows_ it; he remembers her strutting around Hogwarts as though she owned the place, barely sixteen to his then-eighteen and everyone just _fawning_ over her. It's pathetic, really, but James can understand the Hogwarts population's appreciation for her talent more than he can understand this widespread obsession with Theresa McLaggen and her stupid hazel eyes.

They aren't even as "_remarkable_" or "_breathtaking_" as everyone claims. They're just _hazel_. So what if they have more green than brown? Who cares? And that hair! It's not "_chocolate_", or "_russet_", or "_coffee_" or "_honey_" or whatever else people think it is. It's _brown_. Brown, brown, _brown_, and she didn't even bother doing anything with it! She's at a fancy party hosted by the goddamn _Ministry_, and she lets it look like a rat's nest? Theresa just pulled her hair back into some sort of messy ponytail, with these infuriating little tendrils hanging down on either side of her face, and for some reason James just wants to just wave his wand at it to tidy it up, or even snag Lily's hairbrush from her handbag and yank it all back into something neat.

_It must get in her eyes when she's flying_, he thinks arbitrarily, jumping a little as those hazel eyes that he totally doesn't care about lock onto his. She leans in close to Scorpius and whispers something in his ear, pointing over his shoulder at James, who in turn tries to pretend that he hasn't been watching them for the past three songs. Malfoy puts his hands on her waist when the beat picks up and James glares at him when Theresa's back is turned.

Once Malfoy finally gets the hint and flees for his life – rushing into the arms of James' cousin Rose, but he can't be bothered with that _now_ – Theresa pouts and wanders away from the crowd, drifting towards where he is leaning against the wall.

"Let's get out of here," she says, jerking her head in the direction of the empty balcony.

He starts to say, "_How about we don't?_", but somehow her hand finds his and he is letting her drag him out of the warm ballroom and into the cold outdoors. She turns nervously once they are outside, dropping his hand and letting her skirt float out around her as she spins in graceful circles across the tile. He leans against the railing of the balcony, and she flounces over to him, resting her elbows against the cold marble and standing far too close for his comfort.

"_Jamie_," she teases, using the annoying pet name only his mother is still allowed to call him. "You _know_ you like me. Why don't you just admit it?"

"Because your ego is already so terribly inflated that I fear for the safety of the school," he replies nonchalantly, tapping his fingers in a steady rhythm against the railing.

"Seriously, if you were to have _yet_ _another_ admirer, I think that head of yours would swell to dangerous proportions." He smirks, pleased with his oh-so-cutting remark, and while he secretly hopes that it will make her cry herself to sleep later that night, Theresa just rolls her eyes and grabs him by the lapels of his fancy jacket.

"You talk too much," she says, pulling him close and kissing him hard on the mouth. He struggles at first, caught off guard and trying to reclaim control of the situation, but his resolve weakens when her tongue slides inside his mouth, exploring. She pulls back a few moments later, shivering as snow slowly begins to fall around them and paint the balcony white.

"It's snowing!" Theresa lets out a nervous laugh as she folds her arms across her chest, and James is mesmerized by the snow that is catching itself in her unruly hair. James arches his eyebrow as he opens his coat, and Theresa steps forward once again, resting her head on his shoulder as he closes his jacket around her without a hint of hesitation. They stay that way for awhile; arms wrapped around each other and the both of them somehow warm despite the cold, her whole body exuding this strange type of playful aggression and the sort of brash confidence that drives him absolutely mad.

It drives him mad, but only because he knows that he's exactly the same.

* * *

Scorpius Malfoy asks Rose Weasley to dance in what he later recognizes as a fit of panic.

Theresa McLaggen had somehow dragged him onto the dance floor earlier and while it wasn't _too_ bad, Scorpius isn't exactly thrilled at the idea of people thinking he fancies her…especially with James Potter giving him dirty looks from his place on the edge of the floor and cracking his knuckles ominously.

"It's no _wonder_ you haven't got a girlfriend," Rose says as he turns her once, twice, three times. She isn't prepared for the third and almost stumbles in her high heels. His hand tightens at her back, pulling her straight; he can feel her ribs under his fingers, under the shifting layers of her dress.

"As if you can talk," he retorts as soon as he's maneuvered them far enough away from Theresa. Over her shoulder, he can see where Rose's date, Faolan Finnigan, stands chatting amiably with Lily Potter by the punch bowl.

"At least I came with a date," she teases.

"Yeah," he says with a smirk, "But that doesn't mean he's your _boyfriend_."   

She doesn't miss a beat. "_Actually_, it means we've decided to get married and have a dozen kids. You want to be godfather to the best-behaved one, right?"

Rose takes the lead for a bit as Scorpius chokes on his own tongue laughing, and they barely avoid colliding into her cousin Victoire and Ted Lupin.

"Is that a yes, or a no?" she asks him, completely deadpan, and he finds it amazing that some people think that Rose doesn't have a sense of humor. But then, Scorpius knows that most people are idiots.

"So long as they don't call me _Uncle Scorpy_," he says, as soon as he regains the ability to speak. "Because if they do, I swear I will feed them to one of those rogue Skrewt-things in the Forbidden Forest…even if they _are_ your kids."

"I promise to teach them to call you _Mr. Malfoy_ at all times."

He smirks. "Wonderful. All that's left is to find a minister at this hour, and we'll be in business."

She smiles back at him and Scorpius wonders if someone slipped something into the punch, because he suddenly has the urge to say something really daft; like some sort of compliment on how unnaturally pretty she looks, or how nice her dress is, or even how much he likes the carnation she has tucked behind her ear.

But Scorpius is no smooth talker, even when he means it. The music fades and her hand goes slack at his shoulder. It takes him a full ten seconds before he lets go of her waist.

"Thanks for rescuing me, Rosie," he says as the people around them applaud, and he silently thanks her again for _not_ immediately looking round for her ponce of a not-boyfriend. She wrinkles her nose at the childish nickname, but wraps her arms around him in a friendly embrace, regardless.

"You're welcome. Come find me if you need another rescue."

"Just try not to get married before the evenings' over, alright?" he says, because he's a masochist and he just can't help himself. There's a pleading edge to his tone that wasn't there before, but if Rose hears it she doesn't say anything.

She laughs good-naturedly. "I'll send you an invite in case I need someone to stop me."

Scorpius watches her walk away as the band on the dais strikes up a new song; a Muggle one that his pen-friend Reuben told him about. But he turns around and heads off in the direction of the drinks table, eager to find Violet and the rest of his mates, hoping one of them has some firewhiskey tucked away or managed to smuggle in some mandrake leaves or something. He bumps into Lily instead, who is staring quite regretfully at Rose and Faolan as they dance and when she asks him if he wants to get out of there, he agrees. Tonight, Scorpius is willing to do anything that gets him away from this party – even if it means sitting on the floor of an uncomfortably tight cloakroom for an hour or two with the sister of one of his mortal enemies.

He'll do anything to get Rose out of his head.

* * *


	8. All That I Want

Ha! Ha! I knew I'd finish this…eventually! This extra-super-long chapter (which, incidentally, started out as two completely different stories) is possibly one of the first fics I had ever planned to write, and probably the only one out there for the Anthony/Parvati pairing, and while it holds a special place in my heart, I hope everyone else enjoys it as well. :)

_

* * *

_

_All That I Want_

* * *

When they find out, people almost always ask him _why_.

"Why would you get involved with the sister of your dead girlfriend?" some people say, eyebrows raised and more often than not thinking about how _sick_ Anthony and Parvati must be to get married, to have a life, to raise children together despite the history Anthony shared with Parvati's long-dead twin sister.

He _could_ say that he was drunk when it first started. He _could_ say that it was just an accident. He _could_ say that he was out of his right mind, or that she seduced him, or that he had been drugged or hexed somehow. He could even say that it had nothing to do with their shared grief, or that it had nothing to do with the pain they felt at losing Padma and Dean and themselves.

But what no one seems to understand is that to say any of these things would be a complete and total lie.

* * *

Anthony Goldstein is sober – perfectly, somberly sober – when he strides up to the gate of the War Memorial, clad in black and snow filling his shoes as he walks. Wielding an armful of white roses, Terry is a few paces behind him; arm in arm with a blind Morag as he helps her navigate the snow-covered path that leads to the monument at the center of the cemetery. There are other mourners there, some laden with flowers and heavy wreaths to leave on the graves, but they are few and far between; others probably driven indoors by the cold and snow, and some unwilling to linger long at the resting places of their loved ones. There's one wreath close to the monument – he thinks it's Alastor Moody's empty grave, but he's not too sure – and the red of the flowers set against the green of the leaves makes him think of Christmas, even though it is months too soon for that kind of decoration.

They approach the monument a few moments later, Morag falling to her knees before it and running her fingers over the familiar names etched into the bronze tablet affixed to the base. Terry and Anthony watch her in silence, their eyes fixed on the names that Morag hasn't found yet: _Lisa Turpin_ and _Kevin Entwhistle_ and _Michael Corner_ and _Padma Patil_. Terry shifts from foot to foot as Morag keeps searching, passing the roses from arm to arm as Anthony fiddles with the smooth, heavy stones in his pocket.

Morag kisses her fingers and presses them to the stone four times, one for each name, for each fallen friend and classmate and would-be-lover, and Terry hands her the roses for her to place at the foot of the monument. Anthony helps her to her feet, pointedly ignoring the way that Terry and Morag keep rubbing their eyes and brushing tears from their wind-bitten cheeks, and all-too-aware of the fact that his eyes are dry. He sets the stones next to the roses, one right next to the other, and when he turns back to his friends he has nothing to say.

"Let's go for a drink, then," Terry says after a far-too-awkward pause. "There's supposed to be a couple o' D.A. lags meeting up at The Three Broomsticks. D'you think we should join them?"

Morag laughs harshly at a nonexistent joke, part cackle and part cough, and Anthony doesn't answer. The three trudge through the snow as they make their way out of the near-empty graveyard, Terry and Morag joined together and Anthony lagging behind. Neville, Susan, and a few others are there when they arrive, crammed into a booth amongst students and he isn't sure who presses a glass of firewhiskey into his hands, but if he drinks it, Anthony does not taste it.

He squirms in his seat – crammed into the end as an afterthought in a booth meant for six, not ten – and tired of constantly being pushed off of the edge, Anthony takes a seat at the bar behind them. He drinks his whiskey, feeling a little more reckless than normal in his milquetoast way and perhaps more than a little buzzed, when the sight of the pretty girl at the end of the bar makes him do a double take. For a brief second, he thinks that it is Padma Patil. She is sitting by herself, tucked in the corner and her hands pressed flat against the wood of the bar, staring blankly into the empty glass before her, and it takes him more than a few seconds to realize that it isn't Padma, but Parvati.

Without even thinking, Anthony waves Rosmerta over and asks her to send Parvati a gillywater. He watches as the barmaid points towards him when Parvati tries to turn it away, raising his glass in greeting. She smiles sadly across the wooden ocean between them and somehow, they end up side-by-side, like two pieces of driftwood caught in the current. She whispers something in his ear at one point, her voice drowned out by the noise, but her hand is on his knee and all he can do is nod. Anthony turns and tries to ask Terry or Susan if they understood what she said, but Parvati takes him by the hand and suddenly they're pushing their way through the Hogwarts-weekend crowd at the tavern; heading towards the back steps that lead to the rooms Rosmerta rents out.

* * *

Parvati's room is right at the top of the stairs, littered with discarded clothes and shoes that Anthony assumes she had tried on before venturing outside, and she stoops to pick them up from the floor and chairs and bed before stuffing them into her suitcase.

"Were you expecting to stay here long?"

She shrugs and kicks the suitcase under the bed. "I came in from out of town, and I wasn't sure what I should wear."

"Where were you?" he asks politely.

"New York City…that's such a cliché, isn't it? It seems like if you've got a questionable past, that's the place to end up."

She stands in the middle of the room and moves her hands nervously across her body; on her hips, on her neck, at her sides, crossed over her chest. The tenseness of her body does not escape Anthony and he stands uncomfortably off to the side, despite the fact that the bed looks rather comfortable. He doesn't want to send the wrong message.

"How'd you end up there?"

"Dean wanted to go. Said that it was the place all artists go, and that he couldn't stay in England without falling apart. My parents were dead, my sister was dead, and Lavender and Seamus were going with him – seriously, what did I have to lose?"

She closes her eyes and bites her lip, like she's trying to push the words she wants to say back into her head, and Anthony stays silent. He shoves his hands into his pockets and watches as Parvati starts to pace across the room. She pauses for a moment at the window, watching the village move below the glass before turning back to speak.

"We lived in Greenwich Village for a while, the four of us in a little two-bedroom and working odd jobs to pay the rent. We didn't need to work, you know…we had the reparation money from the Ministry to spend, but we couldn't just sit around doing _nothing_. We would have gone crazy. Seamus got a job hauling heavy crates at some warehouse, Lavender took some telemarketer job where nobody would see her face, and Dean just drew pictures in Central Park for tourists."  
"What about you?"

"I worked different places…an Indian restaurant, a bookstore, a couple bodegas and corner shops. I, ah, I sang at a jazz bar for a few weeks."

"It sounds like a blast."

She grimaces, and her hands twitch at her sides. "It was. Kind of. For awhile. Seamus had nightmares, and Dean kept having these, I don't know, _episodes_, where he'd wander off and we wouldn't see him again for a few days, and he'd show up looking like he'd gone through hell and back and not remembering where he'd been. And the worst was when Lavender almost got loose one full moon, and the Advocates – they're like Aurors, see – were on us practically the second they caught her. She was locked up for a few weeks, 'cause they said we couldn't have an Unregistered Werewolf living in a Muggle part of town without some serious repercussions. And I suppose that _we_ were lucky that they let the rest of us off with a fine and a warning, but it all kind of went downhill after that. Seamus and Lavender moved back here, and Dean and I kept fighting and I lost yet _another_ job, and it just, it…it…everything just fell apart and I just keep thinking that if Padma were here, things would be _different_."

She tilts her head backwards, sniffling and trying to keep tears from falling.

"Padma wouldn't have let Dean talk to me like he used to, and she would have hexed him six ways from Sunday for breaking my heart. Padma would have talked the Advocates out of locking up Lavender. She would have found a job that would keep her for longer than a month. She would have been _smarter_ than me and _quicker_ than me and _better_ than me and would have talked us all out of moving to that stupid fucking city in the first place."

"You don't know that," he says softly, moving closer and trying to be comforting. "It was rough for everyone after the War…she might have made the same mistakes you did."

"She might've, but she was too much of a _Ravenclaw_ to fail like I did. And I…I think it was hard for me _because_ she was gone. I've always been a part of a duo – it's always been me and Lavender, me and Dean, me and Padma – and without any of them I just _fail_. It's like…like I can't _function_ when I'm by myself!"

Parvati takes a step forward.

"I don't want to be alone anymore," she whispers, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks as she wrings her hands together. He opens his arms then and suddenly Michael's voice rings in his ear, telling him that he was always a sucker for a crying woman, but he's too distracted by the way Parvati seems to fit against him perfectly to think about why he's hearing voices. And with Parvati's face buried in the lapel of his jacket, he can't help but think about Padma.

He thinks about how she used to twirl the end of her long, dark braid when she was thinking. He thinks about how terrible she was at comforting people and saying the right thing, despite the fact that she could repeat Binn's nearly-incomprehensible lectures on Goblin Rebellions practically word for word. He thinks about how he kissed her before she left him and died, frantic and feverish and pressed up against the wall as the rest of the D.A. headed for the Great Hall, and how he was so sure that if they ever got out of this alive, he would drop to his knees and propose to her on the spot. He thinks about how he loved her – really, truly _loved_ her – with all the courage and devotion his seventeen-year-old heart could muster.

He blinks away tears as he thinks about the future they might have had together; their bright, brilliant, utterly possible future dashed upon the jagged rocks of reality, which in turn makes him think of how much Padma would have teased him for being so weepy and maudlin.

"It's…it's not going to stop hurting, is it?" Parvati says thickly, her voice caught somewhere in her throat and her hands making fists in the fabric of his shirt. He rests his chin on the top of her head and holds her tightly until her breathing once again turns slow and even.

"I don't think it ever will," he says when her crying stops, letting his hands fall away from her waist. Parvati stands completely still, and Anthony doesn't reach for her when her hands fall to her sides, doesn't move when she wobbles in her heels, doesn't grab her and hold on like he wants to. The bed looms ominously in the corner, looking both terribly frightening and terribly inviting, but neither Anthony nor Parvati make any move to go near it.

She lets go of his shirt and her fingers curl around the soft fabric of his tie, and Anthony stumbles closer when she tugs on it. Parvati's hands come up first, grabbing Anthony's shoulders like she is going to shove him away, but she doesn't. She doesn't push him away. She pulls herself in, her body small and shaking against his, her mouth a second away and then her lips soft and clumsy against his own. He tries to say something – he doesn't know what, but probably something random that would "_kill the mood_", as Michael would have put it – but Parvati doesn't let him; she opens Anthony's mouth with her tongue and presses inside, and Anthony's brain seems to shut down.

* * *

"Oh, _wow_," he says, leaning back on his elbows once Parvati pulls away. He is on the bed with no idea how they'd wound up there, and he doesn't really care because Parvati is sitting ramrod-straight beside him, her hands folded tightly in her lap and her eyes trained on the floor. "Have you always kissed like that?"

The corners of her mouth quirk upwards into a small smile, but it disappears almost as quickly as it came. Anthony sits up and rests an arm around her shoulders, fully expecting her to once again lean in close and cry, but she doesn't. Parvati pushes him backwards and hovers over him for a moment, but then their mouths are meeting again and his hands are slowly traveling under her blouse and he can't think of anything else but the way she feels, right here and right now. She straddles his lap, helping him pull his sweater over his head right before tugging at the buttons of her shirt in an effort to pull it loose.

"_Padma_," he moans, and when Parvati freezes his heart stops cold.

"I'm, I'm sorry," he stammers. "I didn't mean to, you know, honest…"

Parvati hesitates for what feels like an eternity. "Did you ever –"

"No." Anthony doesn't avoid the question, nor does he provide a lengthy answer. He could tell her no, he and Padma never slept together. He could tell her that he'd wanted to, but she'd wanted to wait, and he'd thought that there was time enough for them to do just that. He could tell her that he doesn't understand how Padma could be so utterly alive one moment – so _connected_ to the world in that moment where she kissed him – and how she could be lying cold and lifeless on a table in the Great Hall just a few hours later.

But he doesn't. Instead, he just says _No_.

Parvati does not move; her hands tight on his shoulders and her lips in a firm, thin line. Anthony feels sick at heart and he leans in to kiss her again, hoping to distract her, but Parvati pulls away and he falls backwards into the rumpled bedding. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, as if the words she wants to say keep moving around in her mouth and she can't put them together just yet. Anthony can only stare up at her, momentarily quieted by the solemnity of her face, her breasts, the dark hair brushing her shoulders.

"I'm not my sister," she says firmly, the deafening silence between them finally broken. "She's dead, I'm not, and we shouldn't do this."

He stares at her for what feels like a lifetime, and once he is certain that she isn't going to change her mind (_about the sex, about the crying, about the grief or the pain or his stupid, stupid mistake_) he gets up and starts to dress. Parvati pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on her kneecap, staring at the floor all the while and looking like she's about to crumble into pieces.

"I'm sorry –" he starts, silently wondering if _for almost going through with this_ or _for loving Padma first_ is the best way to end his train of thought, but Parvati cuts him off before he can pull the words from his mouth.

"No, Anthony, you aren't," she says quietly, finally lifting her head to look him in the eyes. "But thank you for saying it."

He looks back one last time from the doorway before he shuts the door; wanting to memorize every inch of her face and burn it into his memory forever. Her blouse is still unbuttoned, her hair is short and mussed, and when her eyes meet his he feels a heavy, vice-like ache gripping his heart, but he closes the door behind him and goes back to join his friends.

* * *

He sends her an owl a few days later, mostly out of guilt, asking if she'd like to meet him for lunch or coffee or dinner. He thinks that she'll throw away the invite and never talk to him again, but the promptness of her response surprises him. They agree to just talk first, just really get to know each other before they meet face to face again, and every day Anthony finds himself spending fifteen or twenty minutes in the morning bent over a letter from her and trying not to burst into hysterical laughter. They bullshit each other via owl post, making jokes about their weekends, her endless job hunts, his work with Hermione Granger, all the while finding little things that they have in common. He makes all the dorky jokes that his family used to make around the dinner table, stupid puns and little trash-talking digs, and Parvati comes right back at him. She loans him a book, he loans her a record, and neither one mentions The Incident, as Anthony's started referring to it in his head. Overall, it's a pretty good system.

Friday, she asks if he wants to grab dinner with her at the Leaky just as he's getting ready to leave for the day. He knows Hannah Abbott owns it now, and that a lot of their old classmates and D.A. compatriots go there after work and on the weekends, and Anthony figures that it's probably a group gathering she's inviting him to when he sends his reply back to her.

The Leaky Cauldron is decorated from head-to-metaphorical-toe for Christmas, and Anthony can't help but feel a little put-out at the blatant disregard for Hanukkah in their adornments. Green and red garlands drape themselves across every shelf, heavy wreaths hung from every alcove, and mistletoe hangs in random places across the ceiling – encouraging behavior even more unsavory than usual among the pub's patrons, who at least tried to hide their indiscretions between the pools of eerie, supposedly festive lighting filling the room. It's kind of dark in the pub, and not very crowded. He goes straight to a booth in the back, and when he looks around he doesn't see anyone else he knows there. And when Parvati walks in, snow in her hair and bursting with apologies for being so late, Anthony's heart beats just a little faster than it probably should.

Even after all their fantastic conversations these last few weeks, finding out they like so many of the same things and have the same quirky sense of humor, it's still a shock to be sitting right across the table from her, closed into the little booth in the back. He's acutely aware that his long legs take up a lot of room and pulls them in, trying not to brush his knee with hers. He smiles at the waitress when she tells them the evening special, then turns back to Parvati, who drops her eyes quickly to the menu.

_It__'s just a dinner at a pub_, he tells himself, deciding between sandwiches. _It's not like she asked you out to a real restaurant, or something._

His head is buzzing, though, as he tries to sort it out. If she thinks it's a date, it must be his fault. She's going to think he did it on purpose, because seriously: who goes on a date by accident?

Parvati asks if she wants to split some chips and he looks up at her briefly, shaking his head no. He's probably worrying about nothing. It's stupid of him to assume that she's interested in that way, especially after their agreement not to do things of _that_ nature. He swallows hard when she thinks that. There's his real problem. If she were anyone else, he wouldn't have a problem making sure that they weren't on a date. He probably wouldn't have even gone in the first place. But now that they're actually _here_, and he's _worried_ about what she thinks, doesn't it mean that some part of him _wanted_ it to be a _date?_

The waitress is back, asking if they're ready. Anthony looks up, orders a chicken sandwich, and looks away. She gets a chef salad. When the waitress leaves, Anthony makes himself meet her eyes and smile. They pick up the thread of their conversation easily, slipping back into their usual jokes. He realizes what he's been doing is _flirting_, and his toes curl inside his shoes. He thinks of Padma, and of how they agreed to do the exact _opposite_ of this, but its okay for them to have a harmless little flirtation, right? Everybody likes to flirt. Sometimes he flirts with the girls he works with when they've gone out drinking after a long day at the office, just teasing them or making suggestive little jokes, but no one takes it _too_ far.

_It__'s only fine if everyone's on the same page,_ he thinks as their food arrives. _Only when no one expects anything more._

She spears a piece of lettuce, he digs into his sandwich, and they eat in silence for a moment. Parvati gets a sly look in her eyes and reaches across to sneak the pickle off of his plate. Anthony smiles and slaps her hand by instinct, and she smiles back.

"So, do you have any exciting plans this weekend?" he asks before taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Kind of," she answers, looking straight at him. "I just bought a new couch, and I think I'm going to repaint the living room. The paint looks like terrible in there, all these ugly greens and browns. Ugh!"

He stops chewing for just a second, then finishes up the bite and swallows. She never mentioned that she'd left her room above The Three Broomsticks. "It sounds like it's going to be fun city at your place, then. What color do you think you're going with?"

"Oh, hot pink, definitely," she says. "I want something that matches my dollhouse…that's kind of the focal point of the room. I want you to keep that in mind when you're working, Anthony."

"Oh, _I'm_ going to be doing all of this?"

"Of course…what, did you think I'd do all the hard labor on my own?"

He smiles, and that's that.

* * *

It's a spur-of-the-moment decision, really, inviting Parvati to spend the last night of Hanukkah with him and his family. They arrive at the last possible second, and Anthony's grandmother answers the door before he even raises his hand to knock, pulling him into a tight hug and nearly knocking him off-balance in the progress.

"Anthony, darling!"

"Hello, Nanny," he says, trying and failing to break the abnormally strong hold Lonia Linski-Goldstein has on him. "Happy Hanukkah."

"And to you, sweetheart. Oh, it's so good to have you here with the family! I made your favorite dinner, too, just in case you decided to join us. Now, who is your friend?"

"Nanny, this is Parvati Patil," he says, gesturing to the woman beside him. "She and I went to school together."

"It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Goldstein," Parvati says, beaming as she holds out a plain white box. "I brought cookies. Anthony said that I didn't have to bring anything, but I felt that it would be rather rude if I didn't, especially after showing up here unannounced."

"Oh, thank you, dear. I'm sure Anthony's nephews will enjoy them – Noah and James have such a sweet tooth, I'm surprised all their teeth haven't fallen out of their heads. Now come, come! There's a party inside and it is far too cold to be standing on the porch!" The sleeve of his grandmother's sweater slides down as she takes the box from Parvati, and Anthony catches sight of the numbers tattooed against the soft flesh of her arm. He smiles a bit wider than he normally would as she ushers them both into the house, forcing himself to look away and hoping that Parvati hasn't noticed anything out of the ordinary.

It's normal, as far as Hanukkah's with the Goldstein family go, but Parvati seems dazzled and dumbstruck by the ceremony his family puts on as they light the candles on the menorah. His Auntie Rachel dims the lights as his brother lights the Shamas, and together they all recite the blessing.

"_Baruch atah Adonai,"_ Aaron starts, his voice deep and measured. Anthony glances over at where Parvati stands across the heavy wooden table, and the excited, nervous look on her face makes him feel warm inside._ "Eloheinu melech ha-olam, asher kid'shanu, b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik neir shel Chanukah."_

They all sit as Anthony's father moves the menorah to the little serving table off to the side, and his mother pours the wine as his grandmother brings out the Chinese takeout. Aaron and his wife, Marie, somehow manage to get Anthony's nephews to sit still in their chairs, and Anthony takes the seat next to Parvati after he helps his aunt and uncle pass around the dinner plates. Anthony looks around the table as his father dishes out the food for everyone, listening to the laughter and the chatter that makes the scrubbed oak surface rumble, and Parvati taps him on the shoulder before he can even start to eat.

"I thought your grandmother said that she made your favorite dinner."

Anthony checks the label on the carton of fried rice. "She did – this is from Zhao's Chinese Eatery. It's quite possible that Fa Zhao is the greatest chef alive…if he weren't an eighty-year-old Asian man, I just might marry him."

"Be that as it may, she said that _she_ made it for you. This is just take-away, not a home-cooked meal."

"Hey dad," Anthony sighs, setting down his chopsticks. "What's that joke you always tell?"

Louis Goldstein looks up from his lo mein and grins. "What's a Jewish woman's favorite cookbook?"

"What?" Parvati giggles.

"The phone book."

Anthony and his brother dissolve into laughter as their mother playfully bats her husband on the arm. Parvati rolls her eyes and starts to talk with Anthony's brother about his boys and the bookstore he and Marie own in Golders Green, and the night moves on pleasantly enough as the dinner is finished and the candles on the menorah begin to melt. Noah and James, once freed from their parents' watchful gaze, disappear into the kitchen and return with handfuls of chocolate gelte and the worn wooden dreidel Anthony used to play with as a child. James practically pulls Parvati out of her chair when she asks just what it is that they're playing, and it's odd, because watching Parvati and Noah spin the dreidel on the floor of his grandmother's sitting room reminds him so much of Padma; spending the Christmas holidays at Hogwarts and teaching her about Judah and the Maccabees, of the miracle of the oil, of the rules of the dreidel game.

"She never could get the hang of spinning the thing," he says to no one in particular. His father gives him a strange look as he pours them both another glass of wine, but Anthony just shrugs; too busy thinking of Padma trying to steal his gelte when he wasn't looking to explain anything.

* * *

"Anthony used to talk about you, you know, when he'd send home letters from his school." Anthony's grandmother says fondly, pouring more wine for the young couple in her kitchen as they both slide into the barstools next to the island counter. Anthony can hear the near-deafening noise from the rest of his family outside the swinging wooden doors, but it's so relieved by the relative quiet in the kitchen that he doesn't react to the wrongness of that sentence, at first.

Parvati lets out a little gasp of shock and playfully bats his arm. "Did he?"

"All the time," his grandmother grins. "Always going on about how you'd beaten him in some test or how you'd gotten him in trouble when he didn't deserve it. Oh, he wrote about other people, too, but I could always sense a little more affection in the letters he wrote about you, Parvati. And after you were both made prefect! Oh, he was so _happy_ that he finally had someone to talk to that _really_ understood him."

"That wasn't me," Parvati says quietly, her smile faltering. Anthony can feel his cheeks start to burn. "That was my twin. Padma was the one he wrote about, not me."

"Oh! I'm so sorry, dear. Please forgive my mistake…this old mind of mine is always switching names around." Lonia pats Parvati's hand affectionately and gives her a warm, apologetic smile. "I had a twin sister myself, you know."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm. She was a few minutes older than I was – always lording it over me, too – but she was charming and sweet and had such a way with people. Our father was a tailor, and Tosha, bless her soul, could sell anyone anything, no matter what it was they came in for. There could have been hand-sized holes going all the way down the back of a dress, and I guarantee you that Tosha would have convinced the woman buying it that they were simply for ventilation!"

Parvati giggles and fiddles with one of the loose chocolate coins that are scattered across the table. "If you don't mind my asking, what happened to her?"

His grandmother sets down her wine glass, and Anthony chews his lower lip. He knows how this story ends.

"She died in the camps, dear. I was sent to Dachau, and she and our parents were sent to Auschwitz. I…I never saw her again. I never saw any of them again."

Parvati makes some sort of noise that sounds like a cross between a distressed "_oh_" and that odd, nervous laugh people tend to make when they are uncomfortable, but Lonia Goldstein pats her hand again and gives them both a sad smile.

"It was a long time ago, Parvati, and I miss her every day. But I know that I'll see her again, and when I do, I want to be able to tell her that I lived my life the best I could without her."

Parvati opens her mouth to say something, but at that exact moment James bursts in through the swinging doors, his face smeared with chocolate and Noah on his heels. Lonia excuses herself as James grabs her by the hand, and the two small boys lead her back out to where the party is moving in full-swing, prattling all the while about the pile of presents they haven't opened yet. Parvati looks at him, Anthony looks at her, and before he can stop himself, he takes her hand.

"Come on," he says as he leads her to the swinging doors. "There's a whole roomful of people out there waiting for us."

* * *

They are both full-grown adults, and it isn't like they haven't done any of this before, but they do not go any further than fond touches and good-night kisses until the end of their tenth "real" date. They can see their breath on the air as they laugh their way out of her favorite restaurant, their heads swimming from the bottle of wine they'd polished off over a few hours of easy conversation.

Anthony feels confident enough in the unlikely possibility of Parvati running screaming towards the hills to comment on the pink of her cheeks, which, incidentally, matches that of her Weird Sisters t-shirt and cupcake-shaped earrings. He cringes inside later on, realizing far too late that it was a clumsy excuse for a compliment, and he thinks that he should've told her something classier or more romantic…or at the very least told her how much he liked her hair.

He feels it's up to him then, and when he presses her to the cold bricks outside the steps of her building to kiss her properly, their bodies more shadow than color in the hazy pool of light of the streetlamps, Anthony can't help but hope like a sixteen-year-old version of himself that they can finally take it further that night.

She invites him upstairs for a cup of coffee, and he kisses her softly on the end of her bed, but they don't move further than that – they are both far too drunk for any type of decisive decision on the matter; winding up falling asleep above the covers still dressed in their street clothes. And when he wakes up the next morning, with Parvati's arm draped across his chest and her breath warm on his neck, Anthony can't help but smile and think that maybe – _just maybe_ – things are going to get better.

For the both of them.


End file.
